‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ She took off her watch and put it on the dressing table.
Thierry frowned. ‘I was worried when you weren’t in our room. What are you doing here?’
She shrugged as she moved things on the dressing table. Avoiding him? He stepped closer.
‘I’m very tired and a bit queasy. I thought it better to sleep here.’
If she was tired, why wasn’t she in bed?
The answer was easy: she’d been checking on him, trawling the media to find that incriminating photo. He tried to whip up indignation but found only regret.
‘About that photo...’ Her head swung round, her gaze meshing with his, and for a split second pure energy blasted through him, like he’d tapped into an electric current. ‘It wasn’t the way it looks.’
She walked past him and turned off the laptop, taking it to the dressing table.
‘Imogen? I said it wasn’t like it seems.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’ His fingers closed around her bare arm. The swish of her silky nightdress against his knuckles reminded him of the hours of pleasure they’d shared in his bed. It made her curious composure all the more disturbing. ‘Why don’t you say anything?’
Her eyes met his, more brown than green now and strangely flat.
‘I’m tired. Can’t we talk in the morning?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’ She’d seen that photo and withdrawn as if he were a stranger. Anger stirred. It was more palatable than the guilt lining his belly. ‘We need to talk now.’
Her mouth flattened. ‘I’ve had enough for one night.’
But instinct told him he couldn’t delay. Keeping his hold on her arm, he led her to the bed. Her chin jutted mutinously but she said nothing as he sat beside her.
‘Aren’t you curious about the woman in the photo?’ If he’d seen a picture of her in the arms of another man he’d have been more than curious. He’d want to rip the guy’s arms off.
‘Not particularly.’ Her blank tone didn’t match the fire in her eyes.
‘She kissed me.’ Thierry felt a shudder pass through her. ‘I was drinking in the bar the last night of the climbing trip—’
‘You don’t have to justify yourself.’
But he did. He couldn’t bear for her to believe he’d been with someone else. ‘She asked for a drink then she kissed me.’
‘I’m sure it happens to you all the time.’ The hint of a snarl in her tone stirred tentative hope. Anger he could deal with. It was this...nothing that scared him.
‘Nothing happened, Imogen. Just a kiss. What you saw was me pushing her away.’
Hazel eyes held with his, searching, then Imogen looked away. He felt her sag. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’ How could he convince her? Her listlessness scared him. Where was his vibrant Imogen? Why wasn’t she reacting? Even to hear her yell would be a relief.
‘Right. Now that’s cleared up, I’m going to sleep.’
Thierry stared. ‘What’s going on, chérie?’
‘Don’t!’ She stiffened. ‘Don’t call me that.’ She yanked her arm free and shuffled along the bed, putting distance between them. Her hand came up to cradle the spot where he’d held her, as if he’d hurt her, though his touch had been careful.
‘I’m not your chérie and I never will be.’
‘What are you talking about?’ His pulse hammered a tattoo of fear. ‘Of course you are. You’re my wife.’ He didn’t like where this was going. He’d never seen her act so.
‘A convenient wife—not your dear or your sweetheart, or whatever the translation is.’ She waved her hand dismissively, and Thierry felt a plummeting sensation in his belly. ‘I know it’s just a word, a little nothing that slips out easily, but...’ She turned her profile to him. ‘But I don’t want your casual endearments.’
‘Imogen—’
‘And since you insist on talking now...’ she turned to him ‘...you should know I’ve decided to leave. This isn’t working.’
Thierry shot to his feet, stalking across the thick carpet. ‘Because of one stupid photo? I explained that. Nothing happened! I give you my word.’ He squared his shoulders. A Girard’s word was rock-solid, unquestionable.
She didn’t look impressed. She hugged her arms around her, and he had to work not to let his gaze linger on her breasts, straining against her nightgown. ‘It’s not because of the photo.’